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Skribent: Simon
Emne: Re: Mellemrummet
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Fra en anden nobelprisvinder (1995), jakobiner fra barnsben grundet »Kidnapped« og som følte sig som en lille Atlas i den marvagtige gamle træstamme i hjørnet af gården, med gevirerne strakt mod himlen på sine små skuldre, her erindringspunktet der nok har fået drenge flest til at drømme sig ud på havet med kursen ret mod skatteøen, en historie heller ingen andre glemmer, ligesom man ikke glemmer digteren, fortælleren og jakobineren Seamus Heaney:
In the Attic
I
Like Jim Hawkins aloft in the cross-trees
Of Hispaniola, nothing underneath him
But still green water and clean bottom sand,
The ship aground, the canted mast far out
Above a sea-floor where striped fish pass in shoals –
And then they’ve passed, the face of Israel Hands
That rose in the shrouds before Jim shot him dead
Appears to rise again … ‘But he was dead enough,’
The story says, ‘being both shot and drowned.’
II
A birch tree planted twenty years ago
Comes between the Irish Sea and me
At the attic skylight, a man marooned
In his own loft, a boy
Shipshaped in the crow’s nest of a life,
Airbrushed to and fro, wind-drunk, braced
By all that’s thrumming up from keel to masthead,
Rubbing his eyes to believe them and this most
Buoyant, billowy, topgallant birch.
III
Ghost-footing what was then the terra firma
Of hallway linoleum, grandfather now appears,
His voice a-waver like the draught-prone screen
They’d set up in the Club Rooms earlier
For the matinee I’ve just come back from.
‘And Isaac Hands’, he asks, ‘Was Isaac in it?’
His memory of the name a-waver too,
His mistake perpetual, once and for all,
Like the single splash when Israel’s body fell.
IV
As I age and blank on names,
As my uncertainty on stairs
Is more and more the lightheadedness
Of a cabin boy’s first time on the rigging,
As the memorable bottoms out
Into the irretrievable,
It’s not that I can’t imagine still
That slight untoward rupture and world-tilt
As a wind freshened and the anchor weighed.
- Seamus Heaney, Human Chain, 2010.
mvh
Simon
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